Her Great And Tragic Downfall
by Tare-Bear
Summary: AU. Katniss, I told him to call me once. I wasn't supposed to meet him. He shouldn't have even known I existed. Humans were forbidden. But I wanted freewill so much that I was willing to use him for it. I was willing to pretend anything, just for one sweet, fleeting taste of freedom...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This idea has been on my mind ever since I read the Hunger Games. I've never been able to plan it out until now and I hope that it'll catch some of your guys interest. I can't explain it all now, but I'm hoping that you will be patient enough to wait for it unfold throughout the chapters. I disown the characters and I admit that sometimes it's a bit OCC, though I'm trying to keep it as straight as possible.**

**My main and most important concern is that I come across clear and LOUD when I say that I do not mean in any shape or form to insult anyone's religion, beliefs, or God in of himself. That's all I must say and I hope you enjoy the story. -Taryn(:**

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

Sunlight glints across the surface of a nearby stream, making it seem as though there isn't a world of shadows buried just beyond its beautifully illuminated surface. For a minute I pause in my brisk walk just to stare at this. It's not common of me to take any amount of time to admire anything of beauty, or to even notice. But this sight holds more. Shows the truth behind every tiny belief inside of me.

Just because something's beautiful on the outside, doesn't mean that inside it's whole. That it can't be corrupted.

Like every time this thought occurs to me, my stomach knots with guilt. _I shouldn't think such things, _I chide myself. _It goes against His will._

I push the stream aside in my thoughts and take up my walk down the road once more. Gravel crunches under my feet, the air damp, due to the past few days of constant rain. I know I'm already late, I should have been here days before, checking on my charges. But as always, I tend to spend too much time _not_ focusing on what He deems necessary, and instead I find myself wandering the woods with Gale.

Out of instinct I glance behind my shoulder to the edge of the forest, watching the trees that carpet the grass slowly grow distant the closer I get to District 12 and its people. I chose to approach the wrong side today only to make me go through town before I can maneuver towards the Seam, where both my charges inevitably live. Gale has more than two, but he's so uncaring I'm sure he hasn't been to visit them in weeks. Even today, when I told him I'd be going, he stayed behind.

It's noon and the sun is hot overhead, sweat clinging to my skin underneath the black cloak swathe around my shoulders. The second I can hear the voices of children and adults reverberating through the clear blue sky overhead I pull the hood of the dissemble over my head, withdrawling my face into its depth and shade; I must not be seen.

An effulgent wash of fresh air invades my lungs as I step free of the alley, that I passed through to reach town square. The market is flourishing today in the quadrate, the noises and colors vibrant on every side. Tables and awnings fill the area around the shops with open doors, and the aisles bustle with people of every class, all reaching and laughing and exchanging money. A delivery boy with an overflowing basket of flowers twirls through the crowd, and someone stops him to buy a tulip for their sweetheart.

The hubbub of noise is merry and full of life. I can't resist my instant cringe of jealousy. All theses people bursting from their seams with spirit, and _freewill. _Something I can not have, and will never even taste. It's awful of me even to think of it, to think I have the right.

So I bite into my cheek, absorbing the pen of squawking chickens at the edge of the pavings stones. Bright yellow and green fabrics wink at me out the corner of my eye, and the shine of copper pans over a nearby stand has my eyes darting from them to a group of teenagers, streaking after one another as they race toward the meadow.

More than one curious glace is given in my direction, but I walk as if I'm oblivious both to the attention and the world all together. Not one of the guardsmen at the edge of the town, that stood stiffly in their black uniforms, stops me on my way into the Seam, because my walk insinuates I know precisely where I'm going, and when to turn.

After a few minutes of steady walking, I slow pace, taking in the sight of the crumbling houses. They're mostly concrete, poorly built, and their yards full of unevaporated puddles. A fine layer of black, from the mines so close by, settles in the background only to make the place seem dual. I would have believed that if not for the shriek of laughter, animated to the fullest, that keens in the air. Bumblebee yellow jacket and boots so orange they could suit a sunset ensembles a little girl that leaps through the mud puddles, her father standing nearby holding her hand, two streaks of brown running down his unshaven face.

His eyes fly to mine the moment I approach, their storming gray depths matching his daughters to the last strike. It compliments their olive complexioned skin and black hair. Nothing but Seam, these two and as I slip around the corner, I know I feel his gaze burning a hole in the back of my cloak.

Does he know? Could he? Or was he just cautious to every disguised stranger slinking through his District?

Then I nearly laugh at my own paranoia. _Know? _He couldn't even guess, let alone know. Maybe I wish him to know. Not because it would matter, of course. Because it would anger _Him_.

The two stray beings float into the back of my mind as the house I seek comes into view. The same blue-painted door faces me, the house's windows thrown open and stitched curtains flutter in the breeze. My braid flutters against my back and my shoulders give a shrug of complaint as I heft my hands into the sill of one of these windows, my face peering through the opening.

Usually I didn't go by such sneaking methods to check on my charges, but I'm so frustrated after days of rain trapping me from the woods and from the bitter result of seeing everyone in the square smiling, the means of my checking in just did not matter to me in the slightest.

I knew better than to think my charges were out in the hustle of today's market, because they always seem to stay inclosed with their love. My charges are a married couple, in their early thirties, and the only time they left was either when she must go out to help someone sick or injured, or he must take up his twelve hour shift in the mines. Also, of course, mandatory Mass on Sunday. Otherwise it has always been that way. Always. Never were they gone when I came to peek into their life for their health status.

Except today.

Instead of the usual murmuring of their sweet nothings, or the smell of stew broiling on the stove there is only darkness and silence. Not even a whistle from the man who has always sung. Miffed by this, I stumble around to the back door to find it cracked open. One small push has it creaking on the hinges and the sunlight spills across the dented wooden floors of their kitchen, illuminating a trail of shimmering fragments.

"Glass," I mutter recognizing the tiny shards littering the ground, and that crunch under my feet as I swiftly pace inside. The room is stifling hot, and I walk all the way through without finding a light switch or candle. In an attempt to fill the dank house with more light, I shove the front door open watching the yellow luminescent stretch into the shadows.

It has a sense of abandonment and I know there's not one other living being in this building without evening checking the door to the bedroom. Shadows cling to the edges of the kitchen table, the long, holey coach in the small living-room that is just two steps from the kitchen, and they dance along the sides of the flapping curtains.

My fingers trace the edge of the counter as I eye the messy state of this home that I've never seen even a notch close to untidy. Danger seems to loom into the back of my mind, wondering what could have happened here. The glass is from the lamp that was thrown haphazardly against the floor. Streaks of coal dust mare the coach, as a wod of dirty blankets hovers around an area in the carpet where slits were carved, merely by, presumably, fingernails.

I right the knocked over lounge chair, before slipping into the back bedroom. It didn't seem evasive for me to be touching all their things and entering without invitation. I've known both these charges for years. It's almost as if all these things are mine in a strange nonsensical way. With that in mind, I smooth the edges of the sheets on their small bed, keeping my eyes sharp, looking for signs of blood or weapons.

There is only an even stronger sense of desertion in this room.

What could have happened? It can not have been more than a week since I last visited! I twist on my feet with a surge of frustration and panic. Did they move? Had I missed some sort of lovers quarrel? I dismiss the idea as soon as it forms. This couple is too perfect for each other. I made this match _myself_ and I never make a mistake.

If _He _thought I've failed...

I shudder at the amount of unpleasant possibilities. Splotches of white-hot panic bloom across the span of my chest, quickening my pulse. Maybe they _have _split. Was it possible he lost his temper, and as a result threatened her with his fists as he thrust the objects of their home around the room? Could she have gone into a jealous-fed tantrum and stamping her foot, threatened to leave him as she thrashed around in a vexation of destruction?

This has never happened before. For a minute I stand at the threshold of their back door, knuckles white as my hands grip the edge of the door frame. I'm struck dumb, for the first time in my whole existence. _What do I do, now? _How do I fix this? Every charge I've ever had has never split. There has never even been a quarrel before. And this was my most promising couple. That is now gone, and I do not know where.

As the silence stretches on, I finally decide that the best course of action would be to check the town for them. Possibly they've actually made up already and he is at this very moment buying her gifts of forgiveness.

Yes. That's it. There's absolutely nothing to worry about.

The travel is a blur as I strut through the Seam and past the guards once more. I could hear the noise of the market before even seeing it. I look around at the passing people, in the shop windows, and even crane my neck to scan the opposite row of citizenry. This only gains me more and more glances of peculiar interest, and I hasten to cover myself with my hood. There is no sign of my charges anywhere.

The longer I cut through the hot press of bodies the more time that passes beneath my notice. Time usually never has mattered to me, not until now, as it counts down the seconds of time I think of failure. How _could_ I fail? Me? Everyone will think I'm joking. No...probably not. They won't even take it as a joke. They'll be too shocked to speak, especially as their thoughts turn to what He will do to me once he finds out about such a thing.

Barrels stand full of cabbages and potatoes, and a stall is hung with dainty blue and white dresses for toddlers. I can see the delicate smocking on the front of one. _Prim would love those_, I think. She'd relish in the feel of the market, merely enjoying herself because she sees all the charges enjoying themselves.

Then there is me, who finds their happiness insulting.

Part of me wishes I had her here now, to ask her what to do with misbehaving charges. She must have had this problem once or twice, and if there is one person who wouldn't ridicule me for this then it is her. My hesitations sprouts from the fact that I don't want her to look down on me, for failure, and I wouldn't want to burden her, so I continue to trudge past the market, clutching a hand to the hood of my cloak as I sweep toward the meadow.

"_Mummy_!" cries a child. I shrink away as a woman swivels past me to embrace the young boy with freckles and sandy curls. A father joins the picture, and tucks them into his chest. I'm too far away to hear their words, but for a minute I'm burning under my skin with envy.

Whose charges were they? Not only could I feel the seamless match of the man and woman, but the child is a blessing to the match. I try not to stare as I track them down the street, until I lose them among the others who all herd home.

Thick gray clouds gather overhead, brought from the breeze that has been increasing steadily for the hour I've spent wandering and looking for my charges. Tides of people bustle home to beat the incoming precipitation, but instead of being put out by the shutting in they are still beaming, happy for the morning they've had out in the open. It's nearing springtime here in District 12 and it's hard to find one whole day without rain, so this sun soaked market day has fulfilled some of their wildest hopes.

Would my charges run home, now, too? It seems like a good assumption. I'm not good with people, and I never have been, so I pace around the edge of the meadow, intent on cutting toward the Seam, when a startling groan catches my notice.

My eyes find a lump in the grass some feet away. Blond wisps of hair fleeing from the pins of her bun I catch the pale face of my female charge. I rush over, dropping to my knees at the sight of her weakly trembling shoulders, only to realize she is crying. My hands brush the dirt from her cheekbones, there's blood blossoming from gashes across her hands that press softly into the pale lavender fabric of her dress.

"Mrs. Everdeen!" I whisper, overcome with so much shock I toss aside the rules of distance. Technically I should run for help, but I musnt directly tell an authoritative about her. That could lead to questioning on my part. Instead, I'm to lead a stranger to my charge without drawing their notice at all and then I must compel them to find help, hide nearby, and make sure she receives the attention she needs without getting directly involved.

After all, the charge can't know of me, or I'm completely breaking the laws of everything I know.

That all doesn't matter when I take in her fragile, bony wrists. She hasn't eaten in days. I can tell by the gaunt look of her face, that is normally round and smiling, and the skin usually a pinched pink, now sheet-rock white.

"Mrs. Everdeen, what's happened? Where is your husband?" I ask her, hands grasping her shoulders tightly.

I give her a slight shake. Nothing happens. Another shake and her chin lulls to the sky like her neck is made of rubbery. Another groan issues from the woman's mouth and my own throat thickens. What do I do? Where is Mr. Everdeen? He wouldn't leave her out here, would he? No, never. "Mrs. Everdeen!" I hiss now, completely beyond composure. "_Where_ is your husband?"

"Gone," she finally says, her voice a broken whisper.

Her eyes are still closed and I struggle to capture her meaning. "Gone? Where? To another District? That's illegal, he knows that."

"_Gone_," she says. "Dead_._"

It's as if someone has kicked me in the stomach. "Dead?" I whisper. My charge is dead. One of _my_ charges is dead. When? Why have I not known? How could I have let this slip my notice? Why have I been so careless and let Gale drag me in the woods everyday instead of checking on my charges?

Then my cheeks drain of color at the thought of all my other charges. How many of them are dead without my knowledge? What if one of them is dying at this very moment? Maybe one of them _is, _and that one is here, lying in the middle of this meadow.

"Mrs. Everdeen you have to come with me. Your hands are covered in glass. I'm going to help you, okay?"

I'm not sure if she nods or not, but she presses her lips together and still her eyes have failed to even flicker. Part of me feels as if she isn't actually with me. She's off in her own dark world. A world where maybe, possible, Mr. Everdeen isn't dead and she's happy. I won't pry her from it and I'm glad for it, as it saves me from explaining anything or covering with lies.

It's just starting to mist as I haul her out of the meadow, one of my arms is wound around her waist and hers is thrown around my shoulder. Her legs don't work to help me in the least, so I'm limping awkwardly to support her weight. The only show that she's even conscious is the bite of her fingers on my shoulder as she grips it like I'm the gravity keeping her on earth.

Our hobbling walk isn't something I want the guards to see, so I veer us away from the square and I find myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their businesses, so I'm essentially in their backyards, but I can't find any of them out as the rain picks up in tempo. The noise of the market has dropped to such a stillness it makes me restless, listening to Mrs. Everdeen's shallow breaths and watching the puddles that ripple softly after every particular speck of water that shatters its shallow cloudy depths.

I try not to trod past the outline of garden beds as I go, attempting to respect these other charges' property as long as I'm willing to spare the thought. A goat bleats at me, and this sets off a dog that is tied to a nearby post.

He barks at us, friendly and demanding attention. The canine nips at my cloak as I pass and it tugs at it, loosen the clasp around my neck and I rip it out of reach. Hurrying to get out of sight before the dogs' meanderings brings out its owner, Mrs. Everdeen slips in my grasp and with her fall, her hand whips away my cloak.

_All_ forms of revealing myself, no matter accidental or not, is forbidden. Punishable by death. He would have me killed within the moment, if He knew, and even me, with my status, it would only add influence to the rule. He'd like the example I could represent. "_Not even the strongest among you can evade my laws," _I hear His voice in my head and my blood pounds inside my skull.

I snatch the cloak from her hands and the muddy puddle underneath her. It's damp and clumps of mud streak across my clothes as I fasten it back on, my hands shaking, and when the hood is finally replaced my eyes fly around the area. Finding no one, I finally allow myself to worry about something else. Like breathing. Or the charge I have let drop to the ground.

It's a trouble getting her back up, with the rain falling heavier to make our bodies slick and her limp deadweight is not helping the matter. It's like trying to cup water in your hand with your fingers open.

"Mrs. Everdeen, _stand."_

There is still no reaction from the woman. How is it she is so crippled by the loss of her husband? I try to shake her some, but it's useless and I end up taking her by the shoulders and dragging her toward a nearby apple tree, behind a pig pen. I drop her back to the sticky ground, collapsing against the trunk and bracing a hand on my knee.

I haven't worked this hard with a charge before. Was this like everyday for some of us? If so, Prim and Gale have never mentioned anything like this before. I can't get Mrs. Everdeen to the Seam all by myself and it would take too long to get Gale from the woods. _She_ has to help me do it.

Sheets of gray reach beyond the edge of the thick leaves over our heads, but water still splatters down my cheeks and slips down the edge of my hood. Mrs. Everdeen begins to shake, and then whimpers, lifting her head slightly to sniff.

Sniff?

For the first time since passing the bakery I notice the smell of fresh bread devouring the crisp, cold air. The ovens must be in the back of the shop for it to be so overwhelming, and Mrs. Everdeen whimpers like an infant begging for a bottle. _She's hungry_, I realize. How was I to know the last time she ate? A week? A little more than that?

I stand, intent on my new objective, and with disappointment I find her pockets completely devoid of coin. Mine are the same. Stealing in District 12 isn't allowed and He demands we follow every law of theirs just as soulfully as we follow His laws. What can I do? As I stagger over the mud, the souls of my boots slipping in the fluid, I cross the path of two trash bins. With little hope I lift the lid of one. I thought, perhaps I'd find a bone or rotted vegetable. I don't think Mrs. Everdeen would mind just what she eats, she seems desperate and I'm desperate to have her out of the open.

Unfortunately, my thought is moot because they're bare.

Suddenly I hear a voice come from inside. It's a woman and I duck under the rim of the trash, watching with intent eyes as she opens the door and hands two boys a set of trash bags. My hope peaks and I streak back to Mrs. Everdeen, managing to get partly out of sight before the two boys turn around.

As they hurry to get out of the rain the two uncaring boys run out, lift the lids and toss the bags in without so much as a moment of hesitation. They're back inside, the door slamming shut just as I jump over to the bins. I dig through the first one to find nothing but empty sacks of flour and broken measuring cups. I move to the next one without replacing the others lid, and I didn't realize this until I took a step, my toe stubbed on the edge of it and with the loudest clash of metal the two bins went falling over before me.

In a moment of frustration I give the fallen trash bin a good, loud kick.

Another scream from the woman reaches my ears. "You useless stupid creatures! I told you to tie them down against the wind, did you listen to me?" There is a sound of a blow, then another and I hurriedly start to toss the heaps of trash back into the metal bins. "Peeta, you go back out there and fix it!"

Those words didn't register in my mind right away, not until feet sloshing in the puddles behind me come to my notice. I stand in a flurry, twirling up to face the person who approached and they stop dead at the sight of me; soaked to the bone, my cloak hiding every feature, and inevitability, digging through his trash.

Startling blue eyes peer at me through strand of dripping gold. My knees buckle, I've never been so close to a charge before, besides just a few minutes ago, with Mrs. Everdeen. But she's my charge. This guy could be anybodies. Also unlike Mrs. Everdeen he's completely conscious and capable of logical thought.

With that realization I scramble to back away, pulling the hood around my face tighter, but this turns out to be the worst idea I could have ever thought of. The second I step three times my heel jams into the back of one of the fallen trash bins and I fall over it. A high pitched squeak escapes me as I throw back my hands to catch myself and to top off this awful, dreadful day my cloak catches under my feet, ripping off of my shoulders and face, leaving me without it.

Immediately I let my back smack in the muck, sinking into the mud, just to throw my arms over my face and twist myself away, away from the boy who could see me and kill me by the action. I'm frozen, and I feel heat crawling up into my cheeks. If anyone ever saw this I would never live it down. Gale would be in stitches if he could forget the fact that I might very well die for this one mistake.

"Don't look at me!" I cry. There's no way I'll know if he's listening. There's no _reason_ he should listen to me really, because I've just been digging through his trash, and now, I'm acting like some insane person. He's probably about to call for the guards or his mother.

At first I can't hear what he's doing over the rain, but I pick up on the sound of him throwing the sopping trash back in the metal bins swiftly. Then he picks one up, I hear the clank as he replaces its lid. Dripping wet, he tosses the cloak over me, and I'm grateful, my whole body uncoils, my back stops arching over the earth as the icy surface of the cloak covers my face.

The sound of him moving the garbage back into the second trash bin pauses, then softly, in a low, gentle voice, he whispers, "Are you hungry?"

"Not me," I say back softly, scared to let him know my voice. I struggle to sit up without reveling something of myself, but when I manage to replace the cloak around me and the hood is hiding my face I turn to the boy and take him in fully.

He's not angry or frustrated with my strange behavior, but there's a welt of red across his cheek. The woman must have struck him. And she struck him because she thought he'd left the trash bins to be knocked over, but really I did it. Guilt seeps into the exterior of my heart and I bit back any further thoughts of that before it could grow to more. I couldn't waste my time loitering in his hasty presence.

"Wait here," he tells me and he picks up the second bin, turns on his heels and jogs back into the bakery.

I'm not sure what to say, or do. Or that if I trust that claim. He's probably getting the guards to arrest me for touching their property. No one just hands out food. Either this boy is living such a luxurious life as a baker that he's failing to realize he shouldn't waste it, or even far less likely, he's simply too kind. The second I get back home I'm going to find his charge and suggest that they find a way to toughen him up. He won't make it in this world if he's got this sort of attitude of hand outs.

I stand, holding tightly to the hood as I move over to the apple tree, but still in sight. Mrs. Everdeen is absolutely soaked and shaking in her thin cotton dress, her lips turning an odd hue of blue. My fingers stroke awkwardly at her dripping locks of blond and her mouth parts to give off a sound of such pitiful loneliness that I clutch one of her frozen hands.

The blond boy comes running back out of the bakery, thankfully alone and clutching two, flawlessly crisped loaves of bread. He stops at the edge of the tree and his eyes widen at the sight of Mrs. Everdeen curling around herself in the mud.

"Will she be okay?" he asks, handing me the bread without turning his eyes from her. "Should I call for the healers?"

"No," I say, all too fast and his gaze snaps to mine as I tuck the still warm loaves into my cloak. To avoid looking into those brillant blue eyes, I rip a hunk off one of them and hold it to Mrs. Everdeen's lips. "It's bread," I bait her. "You need to eat."

She doesn't really need my command to do it. Her eyelids flutter to reveal dual, vague eyes that don't see anything at all. Where is the life of the woman I once knew? I shake the bread and she moves her trembling fingers to take it from me and slowly devour it. I give her another when it's gone, and then a third.

"You can go now," I mutter quickly, barely glancing up at the boy. It's rude, but the faster he leaves the safer we'll both be.

His foot taps in the puddle; nervous. "Are you sure?"

I nod curtly, still refusing to look at him. My shoulders relax at the sound of him walking away and as soon as Mrs. Everdeen finishes her fourth piece I see how swiftly that some of her strength returns. Another awkward flurry of grasping, clutching, and pinching before I can get her up and leaning into my side. As soon as she is steady I take off in the direction of the Seam, but there is only a foot or two of distance covered before she's slipping.

"Mrs. Everdeen!" I hiss. "You have to help me!"

I stiffen at the feel of two hands over mine. My gaze snaps up to see the baker boy taking the woman out of my grasp and easily lifting her into his arms, like cradling a child. He holds her as if she weighs nothing more than a sack of flour. He's just as sopping as us now and he gives me a long, straight look as he holds her in front of me, expectantly.

"You said Mrs. Everdeen," he says. "The woman whose husband was hung in the meadow last week. She helped cure one of my brothers once, when they'd gotten ill. I can't leave her alone in the rain, it's not right."

Despite the mention of my other charge all I hear is the last of his words. My cheeks flame. "She is not alone! _I'm_ here for her, who do you think drug her away from the meadow in the first place? I don't need your help."

The boy doesn't even falter to reply. "I just told you. I'm helping her, not you."

But that's not true. We both know it's not true, but now that he's said it I'm inclined to feel that way. For a minute I have every intention of arguing, except it would be stupid, because we also both know I can't haul her all the way to the Seam and I grab tightly at the edge of my hood, taking off in the right direction, hoping he'd struggle a little to follow behind.

That's not the case. He keeps up the whole way. Doesn't complain or curse when Mrs. Everdeen struggles, and the moment we reach the house, I push open the door to lead him to the couch where he sets her.

It's dark inside, without the sun outside, and the windows have left water pools all over. I run around shutting them, throwing whatever piece of fabric I can find into the puddles. Mold could follow if I'm not sure to clean it later. _One more thing I must do_, I think exasperatedly. With my haste to get everything done with, I bustle into the kitchen to light a stray oil lamp and my muddy boots slip over the hardwood floor. I catch myself, but kick off the boots with irritation.

I turn back around to go back to Mrs. Everdeen to find the baker boy standing in the middle of the room, staring at me. I stall instantly, my hands flying up to make sure that my hood is still in place.

"I didn't know the Everdeen's had a daughter," he confesses.

What? No, they don't. I look around for an excuse. But there is none, and he's supplied me with the best one. Only that would explain why I am trying to help her, why I've been the one to care enough to get her out of the meadow, and why I'm acting as if I'm at home in here.

There is another explanation, but it'd be just as bad as showing myself to him, to tell him that one.

"Not many people do," I say.

He looks to Mrs. Everdeen. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do?"

Part of me wonders what kind of life this boy has lived. What has made him so heartfully kind and helpful? I _must_ find his charge and learn their techniques. For now, I'm stuck in his presence, and I swallow thickly. "Yes. I can handle it from here."

There's a drawn-out silence after my statement and slowly he walks toward the door, but upon reaching it one of his hands grasp the frame, much like I had, and he mutters, "I know it's not my business, and I betrayed what you asked, but..." he pauses, uncertain, and looks over his shoulder so that our eyes meet, "you shouldn't hide your face."

I pale. That makes no sense, what makes him say that? "Why would you say that?"

"You're not ugly, if that's why you hide. Or why your parents don't tell anyone about you," he says, sincerely.

I try not to blotch with horror as I let the minimal denial sink to the bottom of my stomach. He did see me. Probably as I fell, or through the crevice of my arms as they covered my face. That explains why he helped me. This also means he must really have known my charges beforehand, because I don't resemble this pale blond woman at all, and anyone with a right mind would figure that I'm not her offspring. Problem is I look just as her husband, and all the Seam men and women of the area, more or less.

My hairs isn't as straight as most of theirs, as it falls in a braid down my back, strands of it curl at the nape of my neck and against my forehead. Olive complexioned skin that hasn't one mark or line or scar, stretches around my small frame. The cherry on top of it all isn't that I look just like the male charge, it's that this boy probably recognizes my steely gray eyes as Seam. But they're not Seam, not entirely, there is flecks of violet in there that nearly everyone of my kind have.

Terror squeezes my heart the longer I stare at this boy. This boy that could kill me with the information he has. If his charge were to overhear him talking about me to someone they will report me. _He _will kill me. There won't be a Trial, nothing that matters, because I don't have the right to such a thing, the freewill, and my temper peaks as the thought forms behind the fright.

"You can't tell anyone," I say before I can stop myself. My fists ball up at my sides, waiting for his reply.

"I won't."

I'm thrown by how easy he agrees. "Why?"

The boy shrugs, and for a moment I see he's very confused, but he reels that in with a calmness I wish I'd possessed. "I guess I'm assuming it's your choice to participate in society, that's all."

_I should thank him, _I think. I don't know how I would have managed to get Mrs. Everdeen here without help. He gave me the bread, that is still warming the inside of my cloak. At the thought of it, I turn and take it out, place it on the counter and half hope this would give him a sign of leave. It doesn't. When I glance back up he's still standing there in the door frame, and for the first time I notice more than just the fact that he's there.

He's got a white T-shirt that's clinging to his chest, and a small white apron tied around his waist to cover the thighs of his black trousers. The boy's stockier than most and broad shouldered. I suppose my eyes linger too long on his chest before raising my head again because when I do I find his cheeks pooling red.

He's not the most handsome or beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on. In fact, I'm sure Gale is taller, leaner, and his skin is clear. I recall it shimmering in the sun just this morning. His eyes are gray. Stormy with flecks of violet in them that appear nearly blue, complimenting his sharp angled face. Gale is handsome. A lot more than this boy, with unremarkable features, but waving golden hair and startling deep blue eyes that I note to with a surprising shudder of need.

I'm not one to care for such things as desire. I've said this so many time before to the offers I get it should annoy me, but now that I study this boy there's something about him...something compelling...

"What did you say your name was?" I ask.

"I didn't," he says. "It's Peeta Mellark, yours?"

I ignore his question, instead I just frown. I know that name. I _should_ have known all along. My hands grip the edge of the counter, and I force down a moment of uneasy. His charge won't care that I'm here at all. His charge wouldn't have been here to check on him in years, let alone in the next few days. Haymitch Abernathy is one of the worst of my kind. If not the worst and I'm bewildered as to think this could be his charge. The same cranky, rude, disobeying man I know could not have a charge that's better than my own, can he? I have always wondered why _He _has never punished or killed Haymitch, and now it seems to become clear, as it is possibly Haymitch's ability to groom perfectly _perfect_ charges without much trouble.

As I'm too shocked to speak the rain ravishes the rooftop. Its prattling fills the room and I push out a long breath, trying to figure out what I should do next. Today is not a normal day. This should never have happened. I'm still not sure why one of my charges is dead or why the other is nearly catatonic. Not only that, but I've come to face a person for the first time in my life and I now don't wonder why Prim has always been so terrified of such a thing. It's exhausting, it's hard, and thrills of fear keep surging throughout my limbs.

He smiles the longer I stare. It gentles his face further, and I turn my eyes from him, surprising myself further as my stomach knots at the sight. He's not _that_ pretty, I tell myself. And maybe he truthfully isn't. Maybe it's the knowing that this is completely and totally forbidden, that makes him so desirable, that makes me want to talk to him, and that causes me to knock back my hood, just to see what he would say when getting the full view of my face.

There's a intake of breath, and nothing more. When I look back to him he's staring intently and I know that we are warned constantly what the trouble is of letting humans see us, because we're too perfect for them. Or, well, that's how I summarized the long speech about rules and protocol and the differences between our kind and theirs'. Yet knowing this, it still surprises me that he seems to not comprehend, and I shift uncomfortably for a moment.

"What's your name?" Peeta finally asks. I'm surprised by how even his voice is.

I hesitate. I've just broken the biggest law, and for the oddest reason I'm trusting a human to keep it secret. Either I'm completely idiotic or...well, no, that's fairly the only reason this could make sense as to why I'm doing this. Except for the flare of anger behind the surface of my mind, the pent up wish of rebellion towards _Him _and _His _restricting cages that bar me in. That keep me from ever feeling anything, from living, from holding freewill. And like usual this deems to the question I always have: Just because something's beautiful on the outside, is it possible that inside it's not whole, and that it can be corrupted?

Is that what I am?

I shouldn't want to rebel, and I know I shouldn't so I feel guilt, like fiery snakes coiling inside my stomach. I replace my hood, and sigh swiftly, "My name's Lucifer, but don't call me that. Call me..." I look around and my eyes land on a vase of herds across the counter, a tangle of katniss roots on top, "Katniss," I say. "Call me Katniss."

Now that I'm hidden again Peeta seems to compose himself better, and he clears his throat, nodding. "It was nice to finally meet the Everdeen's daughter," he says, polite. "I wish your mother well, God knows she deserves to get better."

_Does He? _I respond internally. No, God doesn't know and doesn't care. I met Him, I must stand under him. I must be his soul protector and cherub. God, with his bleak snake like eyes, thick lips, and white hair, only wants to make sure he holds power over the districts with his religion, and with us.

I nod despite my thoughts and stay silent. There is only a slight pause before he continues to say polite things, compliments 'my' home, welcomes us to the bakery because he's probably suppose to advertise for business all the time. He charitably, like a good Capitolite young man, tells me he wouldn't mind hauling my mother to mandatory Mass this Sunday and offers once more to get the healers. Then finally says a small goodbye, disappearing into the rain.

I close the door behind him, sagging into the wood.

What did I just do? I could have sentenced us both to death by that one stupid decision, and he may have said he wouldn't tell but how could I trust a stranger? A human stranger, no less? And why, out of all these worrisome demands, all I can think about is how I didn't even thank him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry it took so long for me to update. I would also like to say two things. 1) I hope I got Peeta's POV as good as I can and that you understand he won't be exactly the same, just as all the other characters won't. 2) Every District worships 'God' (Snow) in different ways. Usually tied into their production thingy. Like District 12 is coal and fire, so they worship a fire-related God. While District 4 will worship the Drowned God or District 10 will worship a livestock related God (as they are livestock production). Okay, thanks for your time. Enjoy. -Taryn(:**

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

The sound of someones footsteps on the front lawn has me jolting upward. My eyes fly from the ceiling toward the thrown open window. The first light of dawn spills into the dank house. For a moment I forget why I'm here. I don't sleep in houses. Then I glance at the slumbering woman across the room, lounging across the couch with heavily bandaged hands.

The night rushes through my mind in small little images. Blood stained rags, pieces of glass pried from mutilated palms. A broom haphazardly sweeping up shards, clothes that saturated every last drop of a rain puddle underneath the windowsill. Mrs. Everdeen's pale face, contorted in nightmare, her limbs thrashing. A clear, syrupy fluid I slipped into her water, and that led up to the past few hours of silence.

By the time I piece it all together, the footsteps have reached the door steps. I stand, hear them hesitate, and then they rap their knuckles sharply across the wood.

I walk over silently, and pick up my discarded cloak and wrap it around myself, pulling the hood on with on hand on the door. Whoever it is, I can't ignore them. Maybe it is one of the Everdeen's friends and they have finally decided to check on them. If I don't answer I risk the person going to the guard to report Mrs. Everdeen missing.

A deep orange illumination catches across the horizon, silhouetting the person standing before me. It's not an Everdeen friend at all. Instead, they're wearing a similar black cloak to mine. Their lean figure wasn't Prim. Could this angel be here to bring me back to _Him?_ Do they know what laws I've broken? My cheeks pale of blood. It'd be suspicious if I turned them away, and my eyes scan the streets outside while I step aside to give them entrance.

Upon sweeping through the threshold the person peers left and right mistrustfully. What were they hoping to see? They spot Mrs. Everdeen sleeping and their shoulders noticeably sag before swinging back around. "Where _have_ you been?"

His voice registered in my thoughts instantly. "Gale! You scared me, I thought _He'd_ sent someone to get me."

"Why would He?" Gale asks. He knocks back his hood with ease. "It's not like you've a record on returning _every_ night, if that's what you're worried about."

Gale doesn't even suspect me able of breaking a law. He only thinks I'm troubled by the fact that I didn't return to the Capitol last night. If Gale doesn't expect the law breaking, when out of everyone I know, he's the only one to know how bitter I really am, then maybe I don't have to distress very much over what happened at all. As long as Peeta keeps his mouth shut.

Gale paces around the small living room, then falls into the arm chair I'd been sleeping in before he showed up. Grey eyes, speckled with violet flicks up at me, and I found myself wondering if this is the sight Peeta had faced. "So why didn't you come home, Lu?"

Lu. Even he could make my name sound childish, and Gale's a fairly serious person. I remember the first time I met him, in the woods, and though it's not really common for me, at my status, to talk to people of his status, we started off our friendship from his erratic distaste for my name. _Lucifer_.

I had just been visiting District 12 for the first time in a long time, and departed from the house of my charges. They were, as suppose to be, cuddling in their backyard basking in the sun. Completely and totally untouched, stealing each others kisses and soft hands gliding over each others arms. I spotted the tall black cloaked figure slipping into the edge of the woods, and I followed. Much better at stealth than I am he almost immediately twisted around, looked me over and demanded my name.

"Are you sure that's your name?" he asked me, tilting up his chin, those serious gray eyes boring into mine once I answered him.

But as he asked me that question, if it was _certainly_ mine, I saw the hint of a smirk tracing across those perfectly bowed lips. He was mocking me, and I would mock him right back. "Well isn't _Gale_ a girl name?"

He looked sour for a minute, and I crossed my arms over my chest, in a sign that I wouldn't step down. After a minute of staring each other down, Gale burst into a long, throaty laughter. Once sobered he pushed himself up from the tree and held out a hand for me to grasp. "It's nice to meet you Lu, or should it be Lucy?"

"Lu," I had said, hastily, scowling at the thought of being known as 'Lucy'. I took his hand that day and he proceeded to feed my need of adventure and freedom. He would show me the best places in the woods, where odd sorts of foods could be found, how to make nifty little traps. I liked him a lot more than all the other angels of my own status.

And I still do.

"One of my charges was hung last week," I say to Gale, honestly, disregarding the fact that it was my responsibility to make sure that the death of the human never occurred. Gale wouldn't look down on me for failure. "I dug around some of the papers on their counter and he received the warrant of his execution three days ago. He missed Mass last Sunday."

Gale sat up straighter. "'_Missed_?'"

"_Purposely_ protested against going. In the streets. To anyone who would pass him by." I sigh, picking at a broken seam on the edge of my cloak. "No one listened, of course, he must have looked stark mad. Skipping Mass? It's suicide. _If_ by some miracle the law enforcements down here didn't take care of it, _He'd_ only send one of His lackey angels down to take out the rebel. I just can't believe it was one of _my_ charges."

"Worried it'll damage your image, oh, great, Anointed One?" Gale taunts, suddenly laughing, despite the need to be serious.

I sock him in the arm. "Shut up, you dolt. You'll wake her." I motion to Mrs. Everdeen, but I know she wouldn't wake if a train came crashing through the wall. When I look back up at Gale he's smirking. "What, _now_?"

"Well...I was just thinking that I've never actually seen the big, bad Lucifer take care of a human. Do you know how much all my fellow low ranking angels would pay to see it?" He gives a loud bark of laughter. I scowl. He's too chipper this morning.

"Don't you have charges to check on?" I ask.

He debates that, some of the laughter draining out of his face, then purses his lips decisively. "Already did. Apparently my District Twelve charges just had their third kid. First, they had two boys, Rory and Vick, and now they've got this girl, Posy. What are they trying to do? Swamp me with charges?"

I can't help but give him a little sympathy for that. Everyone knows that each angel gets two charges from the districts. I have couples from District 1 through 12, all perfectly well off. I've got only a top extra load of two children, from the couple in District 5. The rules state that if your charges have kids then those same children become your charges as well. So, technically, everyone has their own amount of charges, no one has the same number. The children will be under your watch until they're married off, by the faith and guidance of the church, and they become someone else's problem.

"But at least they all attend Mass," I say.

He snorts, rather indelicately. "There's that."

"So, you went back to the Capitol last night?" I ask, to broach the subject. It's obvious he went there because he knew I hadn't. "Did you see Prim? How was she?"

"Fine as always. She asked me where you were, and I told her probably here, in District 12. Strangest thing happened though, you know that one guy? The cranky cherub? Haymitch Abernathy? He asked about you just before I left to see you." It's obvious by the way Gale looks around the house as he says this, that he thinks nothing of if, but I feel the blood pick up pace in my ears. "What's that about, do you think?"

"Who knows?" I say, weakly. "People are always trying to get in contact with me."

Gale notices the difference in my tone. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, course."

He shakes his head, reaching a hand out to me. "Come on, you need to get out of here. It's not good for angels to be gone from the heavens for so long." This is said bitterly, because he hates the reminder that we don't have any freewill of our own. Gale knows that _He _makes it this way. We have to depend on _Him _for survival and He controls us, because He's our God, ruler of the Capitol, and many other names to the people of the Districts, but all-powerful nonetheless.

The humans may be our charges, but we are no better than them in God's eyes.

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><p>I had a dream. A beautiful, intricate dream that was so vivid I swore it could have been real. The feel of the rain was so authentic. Cold, icy fingers crawling down my back and slipping through my hair, devouring the dry stitches of my apron. The <em>thwack <em>as my mother's rolling pin struck my jaw. Sopping piles of trash, and _her._

Katniss, she asked me to call her, and I could never forget the name.

"_Katniss," _I whisper. The word tasted strange on my tongue. It's not a foreign concept to me for children to be named after plants, especially here in District 12, so that was not the strange part. Was it because the name simply couldn't attribute to a person such as her? Could it be that it was not merely good enough for a face as blinding as hers? Yet, there was no other name in my mind that would suit it better. I tossed around Sugar, because as a baker's son sugar is about as sweet and good as it got, but it didn't fit right at all. Something about her fierceness, the stubborn way I watched her drag Mrs. Everdeen home, that could not be sugar. She was made of something much tougher, and still heart-melting. Lucifer came up once, she said that was her real name. Lucifer just didn't sound right, like all the other names I put out for opinion that simply seemed too plain or too _normal_ to be hers.

I had to settle on Katniss, so all through the night that evening after meeting Katniss, I memorized it. That morning I was woken by a stirring dream of her face, and something about rain and shattered glass and bread. That one dream made it seem like I dreamed it _all_, every last bit, even the part about the promise of keeping my mouth shut. Why would she ask that if she was only the Everdeen's daughter? Who was she really? I would have known if the Everdeen's had children, I was sure of it. _Everyone _must attend Sunday Mass, or it means their death. God does not smile upon the faces of those unfaithful.

Granted, the church next to the Justice Hall is huge and it is possible that through the rows and rows of benches and the chance of those standing at the back corner in the dark could be obscuring her from sight through all the years, there is still the reaping that she could not have hidden from. Maybe I've been blind for years and she _has_ been there. Either way, I get a sudden uneasy from thinking of Katniss and reapings.

I push it from mind, push her out as far as she'll go. Father moves around the kitchen at my back and I turn away from the dough I've been kneading, whispering to it at random the name that tastes so sweet and strange on my tongue. "Are we leaving soon?" I ask.

"Your mother is on the front steps. Tie up that apron and we'll start walking."

I throw the dough back in a bag, tie it and clap the flour from my hands before hanging the apron back on its hook. _Today, I will notice. _I follow my father through the front shop and out the business door. She can't hide from me now that I know about her. I can inquire after her mother and smile at her when she tells me that she's getting better. After the death of Mr. Everdeen it must be hard. I don't like the thought of her suffering. One step after another down the crowding street, I mentally put a reminder down to myself that I could probably make something to give them. That's what people do, right? After a death in the family you give them food and prayer, and stuff like that. I could do that for her, and maybe she'll smile at me. I would love to see her smile, instead of the scowl that she'd given me last time.

Big and ominous, the church rose before me. Dark wood made up the sharp angles of the building, one layer after another, with few designs but the splintered roses etched and twisted across the walls tangled by vines and black, chalky petals. The roof stood thirty feet higher than any other building in town, while at its feet was a garden of roses, their sharp, sickly scent overwhelming the entrance.

Entering I touched my lips with the three middle fingers of my hand, a sign of respect. Around me people from the Seam to the town to the beggars that live in slag heaps milled in side by side, eyes on nothing and no one except the large ball of blinding yellow, blazing orange and fiery red, filtering and rising before the glass plane window at the head of the church hall. Sun, our savior. Dazzled by the light, my eyes see spots of black before me when I attempt to sweep the room for her or Mrs. Everdeen. I come up empty and my family drags me to a row close to the front, and I dutifully pick up the heavily bound book full of our prayers.

As every day the same priest steps up the steps toward the plane of glass illuminated by the dawn. So long as the sun is shining in, we must be here. The sun is our the gift our God sent to us. Our God, the Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow. He gave us the warmth of the sun that gave our lands life, he breathed the warmth of our breath into our stoney lungs, granted us the hot blood that runs through our veins. It was He who held off the worthless, heartless God, whose name shall never be spoken, since the priests and God himself has not deemed fit to share his name with us. The God of the night is our God's worst enemy, his opposite, and the death of anyone who turns to him.

I stand with everyone else when I must and bow my head, as our priest, silhouetted by the sun throws up his arms and cries, "Lord, cast your light upon us!"

"For the night is dark and full of terrors," I and the whole room replies.

I stare at the priest more than I hear his prayers and tales. He start by telling the first story of history, about the Dark Days, the one I've heard more times than I can count; the Lord of the Light looked upon a frozen and barren earth, ruled by his opposite and took it all on himself to give it warmth. From that we rose, the Twelve Districts, and from this day we must worship Him in thanks.

As ever, the priest wore red head to heel, a long loose robe of flowing silk as bright as fire, with dagged sleeves and deep slashes in the bodice that showed glimpses of a darker blood red fabric beneath. Around his throat was a red gold choker, ornamented with a single great ruby, crafted into the shape a rose. The forbidden fruit, the flower of our God, the rose that lives even through the cold winters and thrives in the summers.

The choker is the symbol of a man's, or even a woman's, choice in becoming a faithful priest and worshiper of our God. Anyone could do it, but they must be sent away. From those volunteers they take away their right to come to the church on their eighteen birthday, to be joined by the District's red priest to a chosen spouse, and have children. They will come back changed and all in red. Some say that they make you stare into fires for days, gazing into the eyes of our God, they call it, searching the ashes and flames for a sign. Some sort of glimpse in the future.

I wished I could see the future. So many things can happen in those times ahead. Only two more years before I must go to the church in search of my chosen spouse. Who would it be? I know there is a high chance that it'll be someone in town, since they generally don't approve of marrying Seam and town citizens, but in the pit of my stomach I find that I wish that rule could be bent.

I shake my head to clear it, for the second time this morning. This is far out of hand, when have I ever been hung up on a girl like this? Sure, there was that one girlfriend in third grade, but that was so short lived and she left me for a kid that didn't smell so much like bread. How come I can't remember her name? Delly would know, I'll ask her after the service.

Out the corner of my eye I see my mother whack my father on the shoulder. My brother on her side leans away subconsciously. A wave of uneasy throws my stomach in turmoil. _Two more years. _Two more years until I'll go to the church and some random girl will be handed to me, whether she be awful and likely to hit me and my children, or she's caring, quiet... beautiful.. kind... kind enough to drag their grieving mother back home during a rain storm.

I try to recall all I can on the Everdeen's, but all I remember of them was that my father liked to buy Mr. Everdeen's squirrels that he shot and Mrs. Everdeen had once come to take care of my brother, at which time I was too young and oblivious to recall her for any other aspect. Mr. Everdeen, I suppose, showed a new side of himself the other week and I do remember that time clear as day.

It is your damnation to skip church, for any reason. If you can not walk, then you call a friend to carrying you. If you don't have friends, you crawl. By happenstance you are too ill, or in labor, all the more reason to come! God will be with you, heal you, bless your child on a Sunday. A missed church day, can't be ignored. A missed church day, spent sitting outside the chapel, shouting out the falseness of our God, is execution at the nearest day. It was sunny the day they hung Mr. Everdeen, and I remember thinking that this is not funeral weather, until my mother reminded me that that only proved the Lord of the Light has come to observe the death of an unfaithful man, who surely worshiped the unnameable God of darkness.

Suddenly I found myself thinking of darkness. The thick black material of a cloak, hell bent on covering a dark skinned girl with her long black braid and steely grey eyes. _Dark. _The sun wasn't out that day, the rains brought in a tide of smoggy clouds, choking the sky and sun. Had she been waiting for that day? Mrs. Everdeen had been lying in that meadow for more than three days, and all those days before that one had been sunny, warm, and the moon and stars bright throughout the night. For the night is dark and full of terrors and the Lord of the Light gifts us the illuminations of star and moon to keep it not so. But that night, that day when the rain... it was dark...

A shudder racks through my body, and I force my hands to clasp behind my back, in an attempt to still myself.

_She's the Everdeen's daughter, nothing more. _But why was it so hard to believe that?

Prayer ends with the final tale, about the night that will never end. One day, when the Lord of the Light deems time, those who have been faithful will join him in his heavens, in his world of fire and warmth and shadow, while those unfaithful will remain behind on the earth, where the dusk will come, the sun will fall, and no moon nor star will rise. Total and complete darkness, destined to be cold and lonely, for the rest of time.

The red priest throws out his arms, chants under his breath, and cries, "Lord, cast your light upon us!"

"For the night is dark and full of terrors." As one the people of the District rise. My knees ache in silent complaint, but it's not over, the sun is still gleaming through the plane of glass, blinding anyone who dares look too closely. God is still here with us, and we must not leave, else He will leave us when the night that never end comes.

We all line up along the aisles awaiting our turn. A basket of fresh plucked roses is passed through our midst and when it comes to me I reach in unconsciously, hiss at the prick of stray thrones and come up with a white rose. Peculiar, since my whole line has roses of reds or pinks and a few yellows, but none so pure as mine. I study the petals curiously as the red priest lights a fire at the head of the chapel where we must throw it.

The edges are flawless and the stem a shocking green, it seems almost a shame to burn. Then I remember that once as a child I was told the more beautiful the tribute to the Lord of Light was, the more he appreciates it.

I watch as the three lines of people merge into one at the head of the hall and in front of the fire. I try to look at the people as they step forward, instead of the flames, because they always remind me of the reapings. Every time I light an oven I give thanks to the Lord of Light, but every time I look at the fire, I also shiver, thinking of the last two sacrifices of District 12.

It's almost my turn. I watch my brother step forward, kneel, throw the rose into the flames and share an exchange of prayer with the priest. Followed after, the man behind him, that jumped in at the merge. Another group of people slips into the line in front of me, throughout the people of my family, and one of their faces hits me. Mrs. Everdeen steps between my father and my mother, and the person leading her there, to my sudden disappointment, was not her daughter. Instead, it was a Seam looking woman that I could only name as Mrs. Hawthorne, the washer woman.

The line that they left from doesn't have Katniss either. Where was she? Could she be outside, shouting and fighting our God, just as her father had? My stomach tightens. Why would that upset me? It's her choice. She shouldn't go against our savior.

Without realizing it I slip in front of my father and my hand brushes against Mrs. Everdeen's elbow. She turns, and her face, though pale, shows nothing of a hard night or week, or the shadow of grief I expect to see in her eyes. "Yes?" Her bright blue eyes look me over, then she smiles ruefully. "Did I cut you off? I'm terribly sorry, I can–"

"No," I say, fumbling, "no that's not it. I was just wondering... where your daughter might be?"

"Daughter?" Mrs. Everdeen shakes her head. "You must have me mistaken for someone else. I don't have any children."

Disappointment and unease sinks in me like a stone in water. "Oh.."

She gives me one more bright smile, turns, and goes to her knees before the fire. I hardly hear her words of worship, or notice the color of the rose she'd given. _She doesn't have children. _I knew they didn't, why did I ever believe that she had? _Because you're fool enough to believe anything a pretty face tells you, Peeta. _I'm no better than my brothers. Surely they haven't faced a girl like that though...right? Katniss – _Lucifer – _must be a whole different case. What was she, though? Worshiper of the dark? A kind girl who thought to help the woman with a damned husband? No one else would help Mrs. Everdeen with the knowledge that they could be damaged by the association.

"Kneel, Peeta! You must kneel." My father grabs me by the shoulder and pushes me to my knees before the pit. Heat reaches out to me, fans across my skin and my eyes find the white rose balanced between my fingers.

"The night is dark and full of terrors," the red priest says above me. I look up at him, through the flames and see only a fat man with a ruby around his throat, and a wicked shadow playing across his face.

"The night is dark and full of terrors," I agree, and the rose slips from my hand and burns almost instantly. It withers, as if in agony. The petals blacken and shrink from the heat, while the stem curls around itself and crumbles into a pile of ash.

_Maybe it was a dream after all._


End file.
